On awakening, he ignored his food and started work straight away. Quickly he removed that loose brick, then dug in to scrape out the final crumbs of cement around the second brick. His bandages – pristine as he started – were soon grey and showing the bruises and cuts below. But he whistled, sang, laughed to himself – his unfettered excitement actually making him shake. The cement crumbled quickly and the brick started to loosen. He wrenched it back, but it was still just held in place. He jammed his fingers in, his whole hand, wrestling with it, loosening it, working it free. Finally it gave with a crack, and he pulled it from the wall.
With tears in his eyes he dropped the brick and stared at the hole. This was it, he’d done it, completed his task. Trembling, he pushed his head through the gap and looked around, it was still totally black – but that didn’t upset him, there was a floor he could feel, a place to go. He pushed his arms through and rested them down, then he squeezed his shoulders through, and had enough leverage to rest his face there. It felt cold on his cheek.
He followed with his belly and then his hips, his legs, his feet.
That white room abandoned forever.
His laughter was hysterical as he lay on his back, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Then there was a click, a whirr and he raised his head, startled.
The lights switched on in the new room.
White walls, a white floor, white ceiling. A heavy white door, a white bed with clean white sheets and a white pillow. In the corner was a white toilet and sink. He was lying next to a white desk with drawers and a white chair.
And back from where he’d come, was an identical hole leading to another secure white room.
His screams echoed through the whole block of white rooms.
The Movie Star in her Ivory Tower
Elizabeth strode anxiously back and forth across the hotel room’s thick cream, Axminster carpet. Perhaps it had been arranged that way specifically for her benefit, but the room sported a generous collection of gold-rimmed mirrors, and every so often she would catch a glimpse of her violet eyes peering back. They were horrifically nervous, like a small animal that’s just realised a steel trap has sprung tight around it. Hell! Why try to be so poetic? Her eyes actually looked fearful. When she saw herself in the mirrors, there was a woman unaccountably, but most definitely, frightened.
It was a stupid thing to confess, but she wasn’t totally sure where she was right now. She’d flown over to England to film some scenes for the new movie in the city of Coventry. Of course it said very clearly in her contract that when shooting on location she had to stay in the best hotel room at that location. Except the best hotel room in Coventry wasn’t actually in Coventry. At first she was told it was in Birmingham, but it evidently wasn’t in Birmingham either. No, after a good hour and a half’s car ride, the best hotel room in Coventry (or Birmingham) turned out to be somewhere in the middle of rolling countryside. A veritable castle, to be sure, but still somewhat disorientating as she had precisely zero idea regarding her whereabouts.
They knew where she was though. The room was the entire top floor of this fairy-tale castle hotel. An elegant suite built into the top turret that offered three walls of windows that were supposed – supposed – to offer unimpeded views of the gorgeous vistas beyond. The grounds of the hotel ended and extending back from it was the unmistakable lush green countryside of England. Supposedly there were trees and rolling hills. If you walked far enough there was apparently a beautifully unspoilt brook and an old stone bridge one could play Pooh-sticks at. There were a thousand shades of spring, ten thousand ways to find peacefulness for yourself.
Except the boundary of the hotel wasn’t just marked by its winding, slightly rusted iron fence anymore. Instead it was marred by the massed ranks of the paparazzi.
She’d long since overcome her wonder as to how they were always able to locate her. Cynicism had found a fertile breeding ground within her breast and it told her that there were always porters, bellhops, maids, studio-flunkies even, willing to make a whispered phone call if they thought there was a dollar or a pound (or a franc or a lira) in it for them. No, what bothered her now was how they managed to flock; how so many of them were able to congregate together just for her. Was there some kind of call that went around? A secret code that let them know Liz was in town? A sign that impelled them to rush out like an amorphous many-armed beast, cameras clutched in its countless hands?
In idle moments she wondered about the secret life of the paparazzi. What their personal relationships were like, what they spoke about together. It was hard to avoid the speculation when one saw them massed together again and again. Sometimes she even wondered about their mating habits. How would they cope with the constant intrusion?
Richard tried to soothe her, to mollify her. He reminded her that she was the most famous woman in the world, and so of course there was going to be interest in her.
“Who else,” he told her, “offers such a thrilling cocktail of sex, scandal and outright talent as you do, Lizbet?”
But he was from a small town in South Wales, and as much as he loathed it, there was still a sense of amusement – a thrill, even – from the attention they got. She however had been famous pretty much her whole life. But it had never felt as dangerous as it did now, it had never carried the edge of menace that it did today.
When she was younger, she would have thought nothing of going for a daytrip with any one of past husbands. Once you were out of Los Angeles itself, there were few who were going to bother you. Maybe just the odd nervous soul who might want an autograph, or (if feeling courageous) ask for a lipstick kiss on a napkin, but nothing more intrusive than that. There may have been days, and she freely admitted this now, when even that seemed the wrong side of intrusiveness. When, really, it struck her as both irritating and frankly rude that those people were bothering her. She had grown to despise any shortness of tone or discourtesy of manner she may have shown those just slightly over-eager fans. That wasn’t intrusiveness. She didn’t even understand the meaning of the word back then.
Now she was trapped, caged, stuck between four walls with no way out. Sympathy wasn’t what she was after; she knew from the bitterest experiences that little of that ever came her way.
‘Look at the life of luxury she leads,’ they would say. ‘How dare she complain when she’s so pampered!’
But they didn’t know anything of it. Her life may be opulent, her life might be grand, but it offered no freedom at all. All she wanted was to go out and take a walk as a normal person. Enjoy the fresh air, smell the breeze. There was no chance of that happening. It felt like she couldn’t have a normal life ever again.
She couldn’t even open a hotel room door anymore without the fear of what might be awaiting her the other side. Some would-be Wee-Gee shoving a big camera in her face to try and capture a second where she might look startled or angry or alarmed or even just tired of it all. A thousand headlines could then be conjured around that one photo where Liz commits the terrible faux-pas of not looking magnificently, movie-star glamourous every damned second of every damned day.
‘Liz shows strain after fight rumours with hubby, Rich’.
‘Friends worry for Liz’s health amidst alcoholism fears’.
‘Liz was only going to pop down the hall to get some ice and hadn’t bothered to put any make-up on as she wasn’t expecting some low-life bottom-feeder to photograph her, alright!’
Of course it had happened before that they had importuned someone to help them. A slightly dozy maid slipped a sum of money, but not calculating that it was going to cost her her job. A knock on the door, and a voice of a genuine member of hotel staff calling out to her, then the door opens and Snap.
It had happened all too many times before that she had lost any surprise for it. What’s more, across her travels, light fingers had helped themselves to various lipsticks, cigarette cases and even her underwear. It was ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous. As if her pant
ies were going to be different to any other woman’s.
No wonder she was so scared, frightened that despite every precaution she took, they’d still somehow come away with the candid photo they so desperately wanted. The drapes were pulled shut, but even as she paced back and fore she tried her best to avoid getting too close to the windows. It was probably absurd, she knew that, but there was a terror within her that they were going to snap her silhouette through the thin material. There was probably a story in that itself.
‘Shadow Liz does this’.
‘Shadow Liz does that’.
Her head pounded and her feet paced more anxiously across the floor. She was carving grooves of agitation into the carpet. It was ridiculous. She repeated that word again and again: “Ridiculous! Ridiculous! Ridiculous!” Each time louder and with more feeling, as if at some point she was going to convince herself to believe it and stop being so goddamned frightened. She was a grown woman, she told herself. But then she was a grown woman who found herself trapped in a room in the middle of nowhere, by a sweaty coterie of older men who wanted nothing more than to exploit her. “Please don’t be frightened,” she whispered. But all the Oscars in the world wouldn’t make her a good enough actress to truly reassure herself. What about this situation wasn’t frightening?
Where the hell was Richard? He’d gone out earlier, promising a big surprise for her, a mysterious glint in his eye as he went. What was keeping him?
The pack outside was cat-calling to her now. A rowdy chorus of: “Come on, Liz! Show us what you’ve got!” Richard, in a fit of typical Welsh exuberance, had once taken her to a rugby match at Cardiff Arms Park, and the paparazzi had exactly the same tone as that crowd – jovial togetherness with an unmistakeable edge of aggression.
They were bullying her, that’s what they were doing. Today was supposed to be her day off, a chance to relax and unwind in the best hotel in Coventry (or Birmingham, or wherever the hell they were). And it was a lovely suite: an emperor bed made-up with cream silk sheets, a walk-in shower, a fully stocked bar (which Richard had already inventoried), a giant TV mounted high to the wall and one of those remote-control things propped up on the stained oak dresser. It was a beautiful English hotel suite. Not a patch on St Tropez, of course, but still the studio had done its best in finding it.
The hotel too had pushed out their clearly thrilled best for her and Richard’s arrival. Staff had even scattered rose petals across the white carpet to greet her. A bottle of Grand Cuvée was waiting nicely chilled in its silver bucket in the bedroom. Two Waterford flutes sparkling beside it. But the hotel management – no matter how many newspapers or magazines they read – couldn’t truly comprehend that wherever she went now, a monster followed her. A multi-armed, multi-lensed monster. One that had the capacity to ruin the most beautiful things and the loveliest places.
Concentrating on staying calm, she tried to take deep breaths. She’d been known to have panic attacks and hyperventilate when she was young. Even in her MGM days. Back then the answer had been pills, but she tried to avoid the pills now (they made her feel woozy, particularly when she and Richard drank). Fortunately for her, they’d found an Indian yogi and he had taught her some useful relaxation exercises. Richard had left in a huff, loudly dismissing the whole thing as: “The flaming claptrap of a charlatan”. She however had stayed, tried to listen, tried to learn.
Largely his techniques had worked. Except at moments like this, moments when she really, really needed it. Right now she couldn’t find any fucking oasis of inner peace, and was almost at the point of conceding that Richard had been right. That was another thing that was unfair, as they’d had such a big argument about it at the time and she’d hate to go back on her position now.
“Breathe slowly,” she tried to remind herself. “Just breathe slowly.”
This was the price of fame, they told her, the price of being who she was. But it never used to be like this, and surely she didn’t deserve to have it like this now. Every day she had to confront them, every morning on awakening she knew they were somewhere nearby awaiting her. It was driving her insane.
Take her outfit today: a couture black and white polka-dot dress, a black sash narrowing her waist, cut a few inches above her knee to show some thigh and offering a fine view of cleavage between two thin shoulder straps. It was her day off though. A day when she was meant to do nothing more than just relax in a hotel suite. And here she was dressed to the bloody nines. Dressed up and made up so if one of them did get through – and she had no doubt today that one of the bastards would get through – she wouldn’t see a slatternly photo of herself under the headline: ‘Liz Loses Her Charm’.
It was absurd, and she knew it was absurd, but she couldn’t help living like this. Every place she went, every little inconsequential thing she did, they seized upon. The click and whirr of a hundred cameras was now her life’s soundtrack accompaniment. And it wasn’t just days off that they ruined, but romantic tucked-away meals with Richard, her children’s birthday parties, even her father’s funeral.
Oh, what these vermin bastards would give for a shot of her mid bowel movement.
They had caged her in, they had properly trapped her. This suite might be luxurious by Coventry/Birmingham/wherever standards, but she was its prisoner. Here to be peered at and dissected, like she was a bug under glass.
Through great effort she’d held them back all day, but now the tears came. They ran down her cheeks, accompanied by self-pitying wails.
She was an actress for God’s sake, an entertainer; all she wanted to do was to make people that little bit happier. She didn’t see herself as anything more, or want anything more really. It wasn’t like she was a President, or a Prime Minister, or The Queen. (The one time she had met The Queen, Her Majesty had asked her how she coped with so much press intrusion. The Queen had asked her how she coped with the world’s attention!) Of course she liked the money that came with it and the lovely things and the luxury, but she couldn’t bear all the rest that was now wrapped as part and absolute worst parcel with it. The unpleasantness of it all, the stuff that leeched on and clung like bacteria. It was a disease eating hungrily away at any and all joy she ever experienced. She couldn’t stand that she was no longer a person, instead she was an object, existing solely to be torn apart and destroyed.
Despair very nearly overcame her; briefly, she considered the small balcony beyond the curtain-covered French window. A dramatic exit? For a second there was a flicker of temptation, but not with them watching. Never with them so near. She wouldn’t give them the damn satisfaction.
It was then the suite door burst open and Richard marched purposefully in. At any other time, she would have hastily wiped away the mascara stains and tears, but now she ignored her appearance on seeing his.
Wherever he’d been, he had clearly been active. He was sweating, his hair was a mess. With a gasp she saw he had a bruise under his left eye. Maybe that gasp was for more than just concern over the bruise, as whatever he’d been doing, it had brought out the best of his roguish Byronic looks.
She nearly ran to him. However, over his shoulder she saw that he was carrying a large burlap sack. And the sack was wriggling.
Richard gave her the kind of toothy grin Old Nick would have been proud of, then dropped the sack in front of her like spoils for Cleopatra.
The sack seemed to open almost of its own accord and inside was a frightened looking paparazzo. A stereotypical member of the breed – dirty mac, greasy skin, big camera still clutched possessively in his right hand, even though the lens had been roughly smashed in.
Richard’s voice was both gravelly and gleeful in its menace. “Let’s see how many rolls of film it takes to strangle one of these bastards, shall we, Lizbet?”
And despite herself, despite how much she abhorred violence, Elizabeth squealed with excitement.
Snowbridge
The wooden door was locked, seemingly bolted. Trevanion pushed at it, pulled at it, kicked his
boots at it, charged it with his shoulder. There was no give at all. He looked around the room – it was solid stone, no other entrance or exit. There was only the door, which was now stuck shut and solid.
They were underground, at the lowest point of this great house. So even if he could claw away with bloodied and bruised fingers until he loosened a brick, what was he going to find? Nothing, no way out.
Frantic, he spun around. The naked light bulb was above him, issuing a poor and dim light which brought forth more shadow than clarity. He twisted, looking for something, anything that was going to help. There was no axe with which to attack the door, no matches to set fire to it. His knife would be no good against that thick mighty oak.
There was only Snowbridge.
Snowbridge who was celebrating his seventieth birthday by just staring at him.
It was difficult for him to recollect everything. He’d been too focused, too concerned with his own plans to pay precise attention to what Snowbridge was doing. He was almost positive he hadn’t missed anything, though.
Snowbridge had been in front of him the entire time. But Trevanion’s heart had been pounding against his chest, while his mouth had turned so arid his tongue had nearly paralysed. Now it hurt his head to try and remember; it took effort to pull it all together.
They had entered the room.
Snowbridge had laughed and closed the door.
Trevanion had done what he needed to do.
He’d then stepped back over Snowbridge and tried to open the door to get out.
Had Snowbridge locked it? He couldn’t recall. There’d been no turn of a key surely. If there had been, where was the key? There’d been no fiddling with the lock. But then why was the door not opening? How had it stuck shut? What force was keeping him trapped down here?
Confined Spaces Page 3
